Things We Swore We'd Never Do
by lirodendron
Summary: Sort-of sequel to The Ends of the Earth and Risks Not Worth Taking, but much smuttier. Sherlock returns to 221B and is surprised by the greeting he gets from John. Rated NC17 for graphic sexual content. Not entirely devoid of emotional content, but pretty much PWP.


Sherlock gazed at 221B Baker Street from across the road. It had been nine long months, but finally, he was home. Hopefully for good. He hoisted his bag and went inside. The entrance was dark. He had purposely chosen a time when he knew Mrs. Hudson would not be home. He wanted to see her, but first he wanted to see John without her fussing over them. Also, it might be better if John broke the news before she saw him – she might have a heart attack if he materialized, apparently back from the dead, without warning.

He went up the stairs as silently as a cat and paused in front of the door to their flat. He had his key, of course, but for some reason he was reluctant to just walk in. He hadn't warned John he was coming home – he'd wanted it to be a surprise. John probably thought he was still in Taiwan. They hadn't seen each other or communicated, beyond the barest exchange of information about his whereabouts, in six months, and the three months before that John had thought him dead. Things might have changed more than he anticipated. Tentatively, he knocked.

John opened the door and jumped back in shock. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock stepped inside. "Obviously."

"Don't be a prat! Are you back…for real? Is it over?"

"It's over," Sherlock confirmed, allowing himself a small smile.

John grinned with relief. "Thank God!" They were still standing some feet apart, and moved closer for a proper greeting. Sherlock thought John was going to hug him, but instead he did something neither of them expected. He reached up and pulled Sherlock's curly head down towards his face and kissed him on the lips. It was fleeting but electric.

Both men froze. Sherlock's eyes widened. He turned abruptly and bolted through the still-open door, slamming it behind him. He stood in the hall and counted to ten. Then he counted to ten again. Then he counted to ten in French. He gulped, took a deep breath, and went back inside. John hadn't moved.

"Sherlock, I… I am so sorry…I… I don't know what came over me…" he was blushing furiously. "I just…please, I lost my mind for a second there. Just forget it ever –"

He was cut off when Sherlock swept him up and covered his mouth with his own, gripping John's neck tightly. He felt John's strong hands on the small of his back, under his coat. It only lasted a few seconds before they broke apart again. Both were breathing raggedly, surging with adrenaline.

"Okay…" said John slowly, straightening his shirt. "That was…um…unexpected." He cleared his throat. "Maybe we should…talk…?"

"Talk. Yes. Definitely," Sherlock agreed absently, eyes fixed on John like a hawk's, watching his every movement.

"Good, yes, quite… we should…sit and…talk…"

And then they collided again, as if drawn by an elemental force. Sherlock shoved John up against the door, exploring John's mouth with his tongue, hands at his waist. John tasted of tea and sweetness and home. It was intoxicating.

John had gotten Sherlock's coat off and was pushing back, aggressively. He went up on tip-toe and buried himself in the elegant curve of Sherlock's neck, kissing it softly at first, then more firmly, moving up towards Sherlock's jaw, his faint stubble pleasingly rough against the sensitive skin. Sherlock gasped and threw his head back as a tingle spread through his whole body. He had never felt anything like it.

He ran his hands up under John's shirt, devouring the tight, well-muscled torso with his fingers. John's mouth found his again, and he pushed Sherlock back, hard, toppling them over the arm of the sofa and landing flat on top of Sherlock. He continued his attention to Sherlock's neck, intent on consuming every centimetre of bare skin from the base of his throat to his earlobe, kissing, licking, tasting.

Sherlock struggled for breath, his brain short-circuiting from the new sensations. He grabbed John's buttocks, pulling their hips more tightly together. John sighed softly. He could felt John was as aroused as he was, his jeans tight as Sherlock's trousers as they pressed against each other. Sherlock's hands roved up John's back as he kissed him even more passionately, their tongues entwining and disengaging as they tried to make their way ever deeper into each other.

Suddenly, John pulled back. "Wait," he said, panting. "Wait."

Sherlock felt a stab of fear. He'd done something wrong. He always did something wrong. He cursed internally. He didn't know how to do this! He went rigid and cold, retreating from John, from the world. "Not good?" he asked coolly, trying to hide his panic.

John's face softened. "Oh, no, no, no, no," he said, realizing what Sherlock was thinking. He took one of Sherlock's hands in his, weaving their fingers together as he leaned down and covered Sherlock's face in gentle, reassuring kisses. He put his other hand to the side of Sherlock's cheek, toying with a stray curl. He felt the slim form relax beneath him.

"I just want to make sure…you're…sure," John said haltingly. "I don't want you to do anything you're going to regret. We have to both want this. Really want this."

Sherlock nodded, suddenly solemn. "Do you…really want this?" he asked.

John looked deep into Sherlock's clear grey eyes. "Oh, God yes," he breathed.

"Good," said Sherlock, and dragged John's face back down to him. John shifted so he was straddling Sherlock, pinning him tightly with strong thighs. Sherlock felt John's hardness upon his. He arched his back and thrust against him, hooking his fingers into the waistband of John's jeans and feeling his bare hipbones as he writhed in response.

John began to unbutton Sherlock's shirt, running his hands over Sherlock's smooth chest and slender waist as he went, pausing only to nibble at Sherlock's collarbone, his nipples, his stomach. "I have…to warn you…" he managed, coming up for air. "I don't…really know…what I'm doing…"

"Could have…fooled me," Sherlock gasped, in delicious agony, licking and gnawing at whatever part of John he could reach. "Besides…I have some ideas…"

With that he used all his strength to flip them off the couch and onto the floor. They landed with a crash that knocked the wind out of both of them, Sherlock atop John now. He pulled at John's shirt, struggling to get the tight striped tee off him without ripping it, which is what he really wanted to do. Finally, he succeeded and leaned over to give John's neck the same attention his had received, their bare chests pressed together. Exquisite skin-on-skin contact. A shudder ran through him, and he redoubled his efforts, half wild with desire.

John made low sounds of pleasure as Sherlock sucked on an earlobe, then moaned loudly as Sherlock reached a hand between his legs and stroked his bulging jeans firmly. He tugged at Sherlock's belt, trying to loosen it with one hand while tightly squeezing Sherlock's arse with the other.

"_John_," Sherlock whispered urgently, between kisses, as they ground against each other, and began to undo John's trousers.

"Not here. Bedroom."

"Too far," Sherlock murmured, trying to get a hand down John's ever-tighter jeans. "Can't wait."

"_Bedroom_," John repeated firmly, and Sherlock acquiesced. They scrambled to their feet, nearly falling, unwilling to leave any space between them, and fumbled towards the bedroom blindly, still kissing, running their hands over each other's bodies like they were trying to memorize one another. They shed trousers and pants as they went, finally falling naked onto what had been Sherlock's bed.

Sherlock became a fierce creature then, transformed before John's eyes by raw passion. The floodgates had come down. He took control, pinning John to the bed and methodically exploring every inch of his body, driven by need and a desperation to know everything about him that he could possibly know. He was like a starving man at a feast, a wanderer in the desert coming suddenly upon a spring.

John submitted to Sherlock's hunger, losing himself in the sensation of Sherlock's wiry strength holding him down, his hands and tongue investigating every body part, every crevice, every freckle – the back of his ear, the inside of his elbow, the nape of his neck. When Sherlock had satisfied himself that he had learned every part of John, he bent and took John's length in his mouth, one hand pressing John's chest back firmly, fingers tangling in the light down of blonde hair that covered it, and the other holding tightly to John's hip for purchase.

John growled and had to bite a pillow to keep from screaming in ecstasy as Sherlock licked his shaft with surprising delicacy, then took a breath and began to suck firmly, holding as much of John inside himself as he could manage, tongue ceaselessly in motion around John's head as he provided slowly increasing pressure. John felt the waves of pleasure swelling within him, shooting out to every extremity. He collapsed back on the bed and surrendered to it.

Sherlock brought John just to the tipping point and when John thought he could take no more, released him. Falling away, Sherlock fought to catch his breath but in an instant John had pounced on him. They tumbled over and over each other, struggling for dominance until they found equal footing in each other's arms, face to face. They kissed hungrily, desperately, as their hands sought each other out, one hand wrapping around the other's erect member while pulling his partner closer with the other hand, as if they could melt into a single being.

The pressure built between them as they increased the tempo, until they reached a crescendo and finally exploded in a release the likes of which neither had ever felt before. John bit Sherlock's shoulder as they came together, and Sherlock wrapped his arms around the doctor and crushed him to himself as the tide of pleasure and relief swept them out to sea. They lay like that for long minutes, unable to move, as the intensity slowly receded and they came back to themselves.

Slowly, reality returned to them. John pulled the sheet up so it covered both of them, but did not move away. Sherlock seemed incapable of speech. Still facing one another, completely spent, with their legs entangled, they breathed each other in, faces mere inches apart. John had one hand on the curve of Sherlock's waist, occasionally moving it to caress the prominent hipbone idly, and the other behind Sherlock's head, lost in his curls. Sherlock had placed his hand on John's chest, feeling the strong heartbeat.

"Well, that was…new…" John said finally.

"Mm. For me as well. Was it…good?" Sherlock asked, tentatively.

John wasn't used to seeing him uncertain about anything. He seemed so fragile, so vulnerable, suddenly, especially in the aftermath of his assertiveness during their lovemaking. "Good? That was the most amazing – well, it was just brilliant, Sherlock. Wait, you're not saying…?"

Sherlock blushed for the first time in John's memory.

"What never? At all? With anyone?"

"Not…really. Not like this. No." Sherlock looked embarrassed.

"Oh," said John, surprised but pleased. "Well. I'm glad that our first time together was… our…first time. Did you… was it good for you?" Now he was the tentative one.

Sherlock nodded, unable to express the depths of his experience in words. "I didn't think you would ever want me…like that," he said finally.

John grinned sheepishly. "Neither did I. But you can only fight something so long, I guess. At some point you just have to let yourself want what you want." He let his eyes wander over Sherlock's body, so lean, all angles and alabaster skin, drinking him in at last without embarrassment. "God, you're perfect," he exclaimed, unable to help himself.

Sherlock looked askance at him. "What did you say?"

"You, idiot," John laughed, running a hand from the top of Sherlock's shoulder all the way down the side of his body to his legs. "You're perfect. Every inch of you."

Sherlock had always felt ill at ease in his own skin, feeling too tall, too bony, too awkward for himself. It was shocking to hear someone talk about him like that, as if he was an object of desire. They fell silent again for a few moments, contemplating each other.

Finally, Sherlock got up the courage to say, "Do you think we could…ever… do that again?"

John gave him a puzzled look. "What, you think that was a one-time thing? We have sex like crazed monkeys and then go back to our separate rooms, I go on dates with girls and you act like you don't care?"

"You mean you're not leaving?"

"Sherlock, why on earth would I leave? Particularly now, when I finally have you back? Finally have you for real."

Sherlock had no answer for him. "I just assumed…"

"Do you _want_ me to leave?"

"No!" Sherlock said quickly. "Just. People do."

John's heart broke, and he wound his arms around Sherlock and pulled him close again. He found that Sherlock was trembling and he held him tighter, burying his face in Sherlock's hair and murmuring reassurances into his ear. "I'm not letting you go," he whispered savagely. "Not ever. Not again."

Slowly, Sherlock relaxed once more and John rested his forehead against Sherlock's for a moment, kissed him tenderly, and then sat up, yawning.

Sherlock stayed where he was. "John, I…" he began, struggling. "I want you to know that I… that I think you…I mean, that was… you are…"

John put a hand on his shoulder. "You don't have to say anything," he told the other man.

Sherlock looked confused but relieved. "I know one is supposed to… I don't want you to think I don't…"

"Don't worry about supposed to," John said. "I think we're well past that anyway. You don't have to try and tell me things because you think I need to hear them. Just be…Sherlock. That's what I want. Not you trying to act like you think you should act to keep me around. But you, exactly as you are. You don't have to say anything because I _know_. And I can say it for the both of us."

John would never know what a momentous gift he gave Sherlock with that simple declaration. Everyone had always expected him to be, to do, to say things he didn't know how. And when he couldn't manage to meet their expectations, match their level of affection or expression, they got angry or left. Even his own family. With that honest little speech, John had set him completely free.

Sherlock felt a swell of emotion he did not understand, and could only think to respond by jumping up and straddling John's lap, beginning to kiss him enthusiastically, knitting his fingers into John's chest hair and tugging John towards him. John responded cheerfully to the attention, but broke it off after a minute.

"Okay, okay, don't start that again just yet!" He laughed, as if Sherlock were an overly excited puppy. "I am knackered. And starving. Here's what I think we should do – no, be good and listen." He playfully slapped Sherlock's hand away from his neck where it was slowly winding its way up into his hair.

"We should get cleaned up and dressed like proper human beings," John said firmly. "Then I'll go to Tesco and pick us up something to eat. And something to…um… help things along if we want to…"

"What?" asked Sherlock, blankly.

John gave him a meaningful look. "…try something different next time?"

"Oh. Oh!" Sherlock coloured, but looked pleased.

John cleared his throat. "Anyway. Then we can see what trouble we can get into again _after_ dinner. And a shower."

Sherlock climbed off him, grumbling, and let him get out of bed. Despite what John had said he tried to be at least a little more aware than normal and said magnanimously, "You can have the first shower."

John leaned over the bed. "Sherlock, I think we may be beyond the point where we need to take turns." He grinned as Sherlock brightened. "Come on, you," he said, grabbing Sherlock's wrist and dragging him into the bathroom. It was quite a long shower.


End file.
